The Fourteenth
by DebbieB
Summary: July 14, 2006. Tracy can't bear to get out of bed. Another Tracy deals with the anniversary of her mother's death, this time with a LukeTracy twist. Detailed Author's Notes on the story in Chapter 2. Hey, you can take the English major out of college,
1. Chapter 1

It's been two years. Two years, three hours and ten…no, eleven minutes.

I don't want to wake up. I don't want to get dressed, face another day, another beautiful July morning. I want to lie here in my bed, smothered with pillows and covers and darkness until the day passes and another one, just like it, takes its place. Until another and another passes, until they all roll into one another like ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds and spinning tops that blur the pictures into an incomprehensible whiteness.

I should have gone to work. Daddy did. I heard him, at five-thirty, puttering around. He took the Bentley. It idles fast, and I could hear the whir of the engine in the early morning quiet. I know he drove himself, although he's not supposed to. He's not supposed to do lots of things, but he does them.

I should have gone to work. There's no point, really. I have no power there and no respect, and the only reason people do anything I say is because my last name is Quartermaine and they don't dare ignore me outright. But I couldn't face it today. I couldn't face them, or Daddy, or the god-damned sunlight.

I don't do whining. I don't do self-pity. I eat self-pitying whiners for breakfast.

Just…not on the fourteenth.

The sun's been up for hours. I hate my bedroom. I had it redecorated last fall, just to spend the money. Just to show them that I could. Now it just seems dreary and cliché.

Money is all that counts in this world, money and respect. If I can't have them both, I'll take the one that can at least buy me the illusion of respect. Platinum card respect, that's what I've got.

I should have gone to work.

My face is dry. I need to get more moisturizer the next time I'm out. Winter was murder on my skin this year, and summer's no friend to me, either. My hands look like paper. If I hold them up against the sunlight, it's almost like I can see through them.

Dillon came by about an hour ago to check on me. He thought I was sick. He didn't remember today. Did anyone? Daddy did. That's why he left so early, without a driver, without breakfast.

Pour yourself into work, Daddy. Pour me a shot, too, if you have extra. I could use some. Maybe if I just got drunk on it, like Daddy, I could get through the day. Get through the fourteenth.

Oh, God, if you love me, you'll let whoever it is knocking on my door go away. If you care anything at all for your little lost black sheep, please just--

Luke. Of course, it's Luke. Checking in on his Spanky Buns.

_You okay?_

He's staring at me. I want him to go away. I want him to be quiet, to be negligent, to leave me alone in my bedroom. Hell, we've been married over a year now, and he's shown no interest in my bed before. Why now? Why today?

_You weren't at breakfast or lunch. You know Cook hates it when the wrong number of people show up for meals._

Why is he still here? Why is he still talking? Doesn't he have something better to do, some petty crime to commit? Why is he coming closer, easing onto the bed behind me, pulling me back against him and wrapping me in his arms?

_You wouldn't be lying here thinking about your mother, would you, Spanky?_

It's been _two years._ Two years, three hours, and something minutes.

His arms are warm, strong and sure around me. I can't help putting my hands against them. I can't help leaning back against his chest. His breath is hot against my temple as he kisses me there, softly, sweetly. I close my eyes, and pretend it matters.

_She was a hell of a lady, Tracy._

She was a hell of a lady. She was stronger than all of us put together, and better, too. But I can't tell him that. I can't say a word, for the same reason I couldn't go down to breakfast, and lunch was no better either. I can't speak. I can't utter a sound. My voice is solid ice in my throat, and it's blocking the air and making me breathless.

I tried to stand earlier, but it was too much. How can it still hurt now, two years, three hours, something minutes later? How can I still feel it, cutting through me like a knife, all this time later?

He is rocking me, and I want to claw at his skin, to bite him and kick him and make him stop being kind. Kind does me no good. Kind is salt in the cut, and he's just hurting me more with the soft things he's whispering to me, memories of Lila, memories of her goodness.

I'm not Lila. I'm nothing like her, and even God can't make me into her likeness. I want to tell him this, to remind him that even when faced with my own son's death, I couldn't turn over a new leaf. I want to tell him that not only am I not like Lila, of course, but I'm not like him, either. I'm not the lovable anti-hero, with the style and wit to turn everything, even my most bone-headed schemes, into something cool, something to be admired.

I don't do admired. Even when I have the rare lapse of judgment and slip into a fit of altruism, my motives are always questioned. As they should be. Like the song says, I'm wicked through and through.

So I shouldn't be enjoying this closeness, this easy rocking back and forth in his arms. I shouldn't be wanting more, wanting his lips on my skin again, even if it's only a platonic and sympathetic kiss.

I should be kicking myself for foolishly believing that Skye's rejection of him might just have sent him into my bed. But I can't kick myself, because he's close and I need it more today than on the thirteenth or the fifteenth.

Because today is the fourteenth, and I will never again in my life be okay on the fourteenth.

So why_shouldn't_I roll over into his waiting arms, cradle my head against his chest, let him comfort me? He's good at it, surprisingly good, and I have to admit I like it. I like the way my chin rests against his collar bone, the way his shirt smells of detergent and cologne and Luke. And even if there's not a glimmer of actual desire for me in him, he's kind and he's here and he understands the significance of today.

_I think she would have liked us together._

I want to laugh. Of course Mother would have liked us together. Mother would have instinctively known we were birds of a feather, and she would have spun this glorious fantasy about us growing closer, growing fonder, growing more connected until eventually nature won out over our defenses and we fell madly in love.

Mother would have relished the idea of us, if only to prove that everyone deserves love, even me.

"She would have loved us," I say. It's the first thing I've managed to choke out all day, and my voice is hoarse and distant.

She would have loved the irony of us, the humor and the one-liners, the complete and utter unconventionality of it all. Like one of her crazy hats.

He grins, and in a heartbeat, his lips are against mine. And it's hard to remember that his lips don't love me. That his lips don't need me. It's hard to remember, when our mouths join and our bodies meld, that this is kindness and nothing more. It's too much to remember, so my body forgets. My body only remembers how to wrap itself around the touch, what it feels like to stroke his hair, hold the firmness of his chest against mine. My body only remembers the hunger, and the fourteenth, and the need for comfort on this most desolate of days.

I'm dizzy when we part. He looks stunned and a little breathless, and his hands are flat against the small of my back. It's like he's seen me for the first time, and for the first time today, I feel a little more like myself.

Like a woman who knows how to pleasure a man. Like a woman who has had her share of lovers, and husbands, and adventures of her own. And he's looking at me like he's just remembered something, and it feels wonderful to be remembered.

_Wow._

Ever the articulate one, that Spencer.

_Spanky, I…_

He's nervous now, and I understand. This isn't part of the deal. Our marriage has very strict parameters, and wanting each other like this is not part of the game plan. I can see him struggling, and maybe it's not delusional to think that he's struggling at least in part to control his desires.

I can almost hear Mother now, laughing at us from Heaven or wherever they send human angels in the 21st century. I can almost hear her chiding us.

Give in, you two. Let go.

Love each other; be to each other what nobody else can be.

He's still staring at me with those big eyes, and I can only imagine I look equally ridiculous. I'm not an angel, Mama, and I can't fly. I can't jump off this cliff just because I know you'd want me to. I can't risk crashing again just because you think I might soar for the briefest of moments.

I'm not that brave.

"I'd better get dressed."

He nods, and I move to leave. Before I can, though, before I'm free, before I can shut down whatever gate has opened between us, he's pulled me back and he's kissing me again.

And for the briefest of moments, I'm soaring. For the briefest of moments, I'm not afraid of falling. For the briefest of moments, I remember what trust is, what goodness is, what love is.

I know it won't last; it never does. I'm falling back to earth even as we part, my lips still warm, my cheeks still hot with blood. And I don't want to remember flying, because it hurts too much when my feet are stuck to the earth, because it hurts too much when reality sets back in.

"I'd better get dressed."

He's smiling now, an evil, unbearably sexy look in his eyes. I can't look at him, not because I'm embarrassed for the kiss…kisses. I've never once let myself feel ashamed for being sexual.

I just don't want to see that interest in his eyes, that newfound curiosity.

I am nobody's curiosity, Luke Spencer.

The walls are coming down again, and I pull myself out of his grasp, more Quartermaine than Tracy once more.

And I can almost hear my mother.

Sighing.

The End


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes on _The Fourteenth_:**

Since posting my last story, I've gone back and read several of the transcripts from 2004 and 2005. In the course of my research, I found two significant storylines crucial to understanding Tracy's relationship with her parents, her sons, and the world at large. First, the series of the episodes from July 14-16th, 2004, which chronicle Lila's death and funeral, give a strong insight into Tracy's relationship with her mother. Secondly, the episodes from February 16-19, 2004, where Edward has a heart attack after the fire at the Port Charles Hotel, show with cold, hard clarity the relationship she has with her father, as well as her sons.

**The Daddy & Mommy Factor**

When Edward is dying, Tracy's main focus, what she clings to, is E.L.Q. Even more so than her concern for her father's life, Tracy seems obsessed with protecting the company, the legacy her father is leaving behind. She berates everyone, from Alan right down to Dillon, for "not understanding," for refusing to see what really matters to Edward.

Conversely, when she learns of her mother's death, Tracy seems almost oblivious to the money. Because she's Tracy, she's going to overreact, she's going to berate people, and she's going to lash out. During Edward's heart attack, she accuses everyone of trying to steal control of E.L.Q. After Lila's death, however, what people are stealing is her mother's love. She begrudges every anecdote she hears of personal memories, loving relationships, and special fondness for Lila.

Tracy can't bear to share the memories of love for her mother anymore than she can bear the thought of sharing her father's wealth. As she told the viperous Heather Webber, "I just had this conversation with another mongrel my mother stopped to pet, and I'm going to tell you what I told her. That sliver of attention that my mother gave you does not give you the right to consider her death as a personal loss."

This might seem absurd, until one considers the values both Edward and Lila taught to their children. In Edward's eyes, money and power _were_ love, with E.L.Q. the holy church of paternal devotion. The empire he has built is a living expression of his love for his family, the only expression he seems capable of sharing. Every time Tracy grasps for control of E.L.Q. or the Quartermaine fortune, she is in fact grasping for her father's love as she knows it. And every time Edward snubs her or disowns her or forces her out of power, he is revoking that love.

Lila, on the other hand, expresses love in a more conventional way, with kind words and deeds, loving experiences, good times, laughter. As starved as Tracy is for affection, it is understandable that she would hoard her mother's love and begrudge anyone who dared try to lay claim to it. And as much as she loves her mother, there is a part of Tracy that is hurt by her mother's kindness to others. In Tracy's way of seeing things, Lila's showing kindness to other family members, to friends, and to pretty much every hard luck case she meets is no different from Edward lavishing praise and power on people like Justus and Skye. To Tracy, these people are interlopers, thieves who have come in and charmed love away from her parents, love she has worked very hard to earn but never seems to get enough of.

**Abuse or Tough Love**

It's not hard to look at Edward Quartermaine and see his treatment of Tracy as abusive. In word and deed he has taught her, to the core of her being, that she is not worthy of love. He berates her at every turn, questions her every motive, puts her down and drives her away. He views her constant need for validation as weakness, belittles her successes, and amplifies her failures.

Lila, on the other hand, has a more subtle crime to answer to. Lila, whom everyone loves, whom everyone turns to, seems to turn a blind eye towards her husband's treatment of Tracy. Even though she may defend Tracy from time to time, in the end, the woman who would help the neediest stranger on the street is curiously absent when it comes to protecting her own daughter from the verbal and psychological abuse dealt her by her own father.

In the story, _The Fourteenth_, Tracy constantly says that she "is not Lila." But it is also true that Tracy is not Edward, either. There's too much of Lila in Tracy for her to truly become another Edward Quartermaine. There's too much love in her, too much sensitivity. It's battered love and skewed sensitivity, no doubt a result of her stunted emotional growth and deeply twisted views on love and loyalty; but it's still there. It's strong and fierce and sometimes overwhelming.

You can see it in the way she reacts to finding out that both Ned and Dillon survived the hotel fire. This is not a woman who merely tolerates her sons; she pulls them to her hard, holding on for dear life lest they turn out to be a mirage. You can see it in the way she reacts to her mother's death, the way she clutches her mother's picture to her heart. This is a woman who cries openly for her mother, onlookers be damned as she weeps, "I want my mommy" to an uncharacteristically sympathetic Edward.

Tracy has too much love in her to ever be Edward, but too much Edward in her to ever be Lila. She has schooled herself in the harsh reality of Edward's world, taking her knocks like a prizefighter, standing hard and facing the world with fangs and claws bare. She could never be a society wife, a server of tea and cookies, even if she wanted to. She understands Edward's world, revels in it to a large degree, and would thrive in it if circumstances were different.

But the most curious part of the Tracy make-up is not how much of Lila or Edward she has in her, but how much of that transitory essence called "Tracy" she has in her. One is hard pressed to imagine what Tracy Quartermaine would have been if not for the influence of her parents. You see traces of it throughout the series, bits of personal flair that are pure Tracy--smug glances, witty remarks, certain gestures. There is always that tantalizing hint of what this woman would have become, in a kinder environment, in a more giving, more generous environment.

**The Dillon and Ned Factor**

Tracy's relationships with her sons are almost as intriguing as her relationships are with her parents. Dillon and Ned not only came from different fathers; they came from different universes.

Ned was raised in privilege, shuffled off to the finest boarding schools in Europe and basically ignored by his jet-setting mother. The only influence Tracy really had on him in his early years was _in absentia_, and this reflects clearly in their adult relationship. Tracy is not "Mom" to Ned except in the most extreme circumstances. She is "Tracy" or "Mother." She is a subject of amusement and distraction, and quite often a thorn in his side. But one never gets the idea that Ned takes his mother that personally. She is his mother, yes, but she's still Tracy. And that distance gives him an edge over his younger half-brother, Dillon.

Dillon, unlike Ned, did not always have it so easy. While Tracy did her best to raise him in a style she found befitting a Quartermaine heir, the two did their share of skipping out on hotel bills and living in dives. When Tracy had Dillon, she tried to make up for her mistakes with Ned by keeping Dillon with her as much as possible. This made for years of loneliness, watching old movies in hotel rooms while Mom wheeled and dealed her way across continents, trying to regain the fortune she lost when Edward and Lila banished her from the family time and time again.

Unlike Ned, Dillon thinks of Tracy as "Mom," because that's what she is to him. She's not this distant entity who showed up on the occasional birthday and holiday and sent big fat checks to compensate for her absence. She is the woman he lived with, the woman he saw trying (and failing) to win back her family's acceptance. And because of this, Dillon is not only fiercely loyal to his mother, he is also equally vulnerable to her.

Dillon cannot separate himself from Tracy the way Ned can; it's personal to him. When Tracy fails Ned, as she so often does, to him it's just "Tracy being Tracy." But when she fails Dillon, it's Mom hurting Dillon. On the other hand, this closeness also gives Dillon a hand-up on controlling Tracy. He knows her too well, and has seen too many things, to let her slide behind the "Tracy Quartermaine, Bitch from Hell" mask completely.

When Edward had his heart attack, all Ned could do is urge Tracy to behave. Dillon, on the other hand, gets inside her hard, protective shell, if only for a moment. He reminds her of the watch she bought for Edward in Paris, the beautiful watch that had to be wrapped _just _so, the one she sent as an Easter gift, the one Edward returned unopened. She denies the story, but Dillon forces her to remember, telling her that although she told him to throw the returned gift into the Seine, he never did it. He still has the watch, perfectly wrapped, and he knows she loves her father because he saw her crying after she got the watch back unopened. For a split second, Dillon cuts through to the Tracy beneath the mask. For a split second, the viewers see the recognition in her face, the horror and shame at the memory, the remorse that she allowed Dillon to see her weakness. It's gone immediately, and what's left is pure Edward Quartermaine, only tempered by Tracy's own obvious love for her son. It's apparent that Tracy has swallowed Edward's parenting philosophy, hook, line and sinker, as evidenced by the following excerpt from the February 17, 2004, episode:

Tracy: That Easter that I sent him the present, I showed weakness. That's why he sent it back.

Dillon: Oh, God, Mom, he was wrong. Grandfather was wrong. When you reject somebody, you're -- you're not teaching them something, you're not making them stronger. You're making them feel alone, that's it.

Tracy: I guess I love you the way my father loves me. I know it's not easy, but it's who we are. Daddy and I fight all the time. But we respect each other, and that's more valuable than sentiment.

Dillon: So you'd rather I respect you than love you?

Tracy: I don't need you to think fondly of me. What I need -- what I need is for you to stand up for yourself.

Dillon: Whether I like it or not?

Tracy: Mm-hmm. Whether you like it or not.

The interesting part of the above exchange is that careful viewers will not buy Tracy's story any more than Dillon does. She spouts the party line about earning respect rather than love and, on the surface, believes it fully. But her actions show, time and again, that Tracy would sacrifice every dignity for just a moment of her father's unfettered love.

**The Husband Factor**

Perhaps the most influential person in Tracy's life, after her parents and her sons, has turned out to be Luke Spencer, Husband #5. Unlike her previous husbands, who each in their own way have tried to charm her or change her or control her (usually with disastrous results for all involved parties), Luke actually seems to embrace the Tracy he's got without trying to rehabilitate her or manipulate her (except of course within the context of their $15 million tug-of-war). Perhaps because the marriage began with no pretense of romance or love or even friendship, there is a raw honesty between them that seems to work for Tracy.

One of the things that seems to grate on so many people about Tracy Quartermaine is her bluntness. She tells it like it is and isn't really all that concerned with tact and niceness. Ironically, in her history with men, it is deception that has always been the downfall for Tracy. Of her five husbands, the first three were notoriously unfaithful. Two were in love with other women when they married her. Time after time, Tracy's faith in love has been dashed to bits, usually in a very public and humiliating way.

The events of her marriage with Paul Hornsby, Dillon's father, seem to have been a turning point for Tracy and her views on love and relationships. It was the pain of that break-up, combined with the knowledge that she'd been used as a pawn by the Cartel to steal E.L.Q., that inevitably destroyed her faith in love and marriage. Never again, after Paul Hornsby, did Tracy enter a relationship for love. Convenience, sex, leverage--these were the only legitimate reasons for being with a man. Otherwise, Tracy, post-Paul, was a single woman to the core.

The oddly appropriate thing about Tracy's marriage to Luke is the blatant, often brutal, honesty of it. There is no delusion on either of their parts that this is anything but a sham marriage, a mildly inconvenient stand-off between equally-matched combatants over a $15 million prize. There are no hearts and flowers here, no protestations of love and desire. At best, they respect each other (remember that word? Respect is more important to Tracy's mind than sentiment.). At worst, they loathe each other. And through it all, they're wickedly amused by each other, addicted to the game of one-upsmanship that tests them both to the limits of their ability.

It is this very lack of conventional romance that frees Tracy and Luke to grow as a couple. Tracy, who has never known real love from a husband, is no longer looking behind every corner, waiting for the betrayal she's been taught by experience to expect. There is no hidden agenda for her to seek out--it's all there on the table, including the girlfriend (who ironically cuts him off sexually the minute he says "I do.").

Luke, who is still broken from the loss of his One True Love, does not have the guilt issues with Tracy he's had with all his other lovers. He knows this is business only, so he can allow himself to relish it freely, to explore it with abandon. He can have fun with Tracy in a way he cannot with his other (former) lovers because he believes he is not at risk of betraying Laura by falling in love with her.

While their baggage sets up a particularly interesting set of roadblocks to happiness, knowing about them and accepting them actually offers Tracy and Luke more freedom to bond than not. It is truly amusing to watch the two interact, particularly later in their marriage. For all their protests of wanting a divorce, Tracy and Luke act like an old married couple. He knows how she likes her drinks made; she hovers over him when he's sick. They connect on an intellectual basis, and spark on a psychological (is that psychotic?) basis.

The only connection they haven't made is physical. Sure, Luke insists he's " seen a side of Tracy that I -- well, who knew? True, originally, it was just that primal animal sexual thing that she does so well…" But it's a fairly good bet that they actually _haven't_ consummated the relationship. On the other hand, while it may not be as obvious as in other couples, there is definitely sexual tension in the Luke/Tracy relationship.

The best evidence of this came in November, 2005, when Tracy has Lulu hauled into the police department for grand theft. When Luke realizes Lulu might go to jail, he tells Tracy the game is over, that it's not fun anymore. He offers her a divorce, without alimony, in exchange for Tracy dropping the charges against Lulu. When Tracy realizes he's serious about his offer, her guard drops for just a moment--there's almost a little girl disappointment in her voice as she says, "Really?" Then the mask snaps back up, and she accuses him of having an ulterior motive. She then lectures him on parenting, saying things like how is Lulu going to learn anything about responsibility if they let a little blackmail between them get her off the hook. She basically says that to go through with the deal is enabling Lulu's bad behavior and that she won't have any part of it. That's when Luke accuses her of not wanting to divorce him, and the real fun begins.

When Mac asks Tracy if she's going to go through with the plan to drop the charges in exchange for the alimony-free divorce, she grins and says, "I haven't decided yet." This prompts a long diatribe from Skye, who accuses Tracy of using Lulu to hang on to Luke because she's lonely and bitter. But during the entire monologue, Luke and Tracy can't take their eyes off each other. It's an incredibly sexy look, combining lust and fierce competition, of two equal players who realize that the game is not over; in fact, it's just moved to a higher level of play, and they're both relishing the prospect. Seriously, they come just short of licking their lips in anticipation, and Skye just keeps sounding more and more desperate as she hurls accusations at Tracy.

In truth, Luke gives Tracy something she's craved for a long time--a challenge. And unlike the challenges offered to her by her father, Luke's challenges are actually winnable. Unlike those offered by her former lovers and husbands, his are fair and honest. Luke brings out the cunning and the wit in Tracy, and he seems to enjoy losing to her almost…_almost_ as much as he loves winning.

With Luke and Tracy, the fun is in playing the game. Who wins and who loses changes from day to day, with each winding up on top in turn. But at the core of their incredibly functional dysfunctional relationship, there's always that sense of respect, that joy of the game, and that real understanding they have for each other.

Personally, I don't know if Luke and Tracy are ever going to break through to a real romance on the show. I'd like to hope they will, because these two have the potential of being a real rarity on television--a sexy, older, perfectly matched power couple.

But even if they never get past the game-playing stage--wow! What a great game it is!


End file.
